


The Rest Is Confetti

by WetSammyWinchester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean's Deal, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-05 17:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18370991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WetSammyWinchester/pseuds/WetSammyWinchester
Summary: There was no need for them to be out in this snowstorm. They could have waited until the next morning to head to Tahoe. But with Dean’s deal hanging over his head, he doesn’t wait around for anything and Sam can’t say no.





	The Rest Is Confetti

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Gencest Big Bang](https://gencestbang.tumblr.com/). Thanks to the mods for celebrating the unusually close and platonic relationship between the brothers. Thanks to [bratfarrar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bratfarrar) for the beta and for being such a great support in all things!
> 
> What can I say about my artist, aggiedoll? Amazing ideas and captured that snowy, desolate feel right away in all of their amazing artwork! Here's a link to their [art masterpost](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18393623) to leave them all the kudos they deserve.
> 
> Title taken from The Haunting of Hill House (because obviously, I have a thing for dysfunctional siblings who love each other no matter what).

Dean, close the window. ’s too cold, he thinks as he twitches his nose.

 _If there’s a light up ahead, well brother I just don’t know_ — Johnny Cash sings on the radio and Sam’s nose and cheeks tingle and now he’s pissed enough to pull himself half awake. The car is quiet, too quiet. There’s no comfortable rumbling from the engine, no dry hot air being blown from the vents, and Dean must have pulled over, stopping for gas, maybe food. Two hours and he couldn’t wait for a goddamn chili dog? 

When Sam pries open his eyes, Johnny is still singing about being further down the road and there are snowflakes falling inside the Impala. Small flakes softly pinwheel across his vision and he blinks as they float by before sticking to the mirror and the dash and even the end of his nose. Curious and detached, he watches them fall and thinks of the car as a snowglobe and smiles in that second - shake it up again, Dean, shake it more, make it snow - before the cold makes him irritable again and he remembers he wants to yell at his brother.

“Dean—” He starts to turn in the seat but a jolt of pain shoots up his right arm that is all wrong. The passenger door traps his arm and the angle is odd and his body is heavy so when he tries to push off again, he drops back down again. “What the—”

Looking out the windshield doesn’t help him to orient. A fresh layer of snow covers the hillside outside and a pine tree, skinny and dark, blocks the front of the car, sticking up at an odd angle. He spends a second wondering how a tree grows out of the ground at that angle before he’s jarred fully awake. 

The tree’s not wrong, it’s the car. It’s him.

~~~

“It’s only two hours to Harvey’s,” Dean says, throwing his clothes into the duffel. It takes him a few minutes before he realizes Sam isn’t joining him in packing but still sitting on the bed, engrossed in the laptop. “Let’s get a move on.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Why would we stay in this armpit of a town when we could be playing blackjack in Tahoe tonight?” 

Sam waves an arm at the window. The answer is obvious in the iron-grey sky and the flurries of snowflakes that blow by. “Uh, because there’s a storm advisory?”

“A little snow’s never stopped us before.”

Sam snorts and starts typing again. Dean whacks his foot.

“Don’t be a girl, Samantha, it’s only two hours. Besides,“ he says as he picks up his other pair of jeans to toss them in the bag, “only eight months left and I’m not spending it in Jackson another night.”

Sam shuts the laptop lid and watches as Dean starts to pack the weapons bag, more careful with the contents this time. Dean’s driven through worse, he knows that. He also knows that if Dean wants Tahoe tonight, they should go to Tahoe.

~~~

“Dean!” The car is angled just enough that gravity keeps him pressed against the passenger door. The way Dean’s head droops and how he hasn’t responded to Sam has his heart racing like a rabbit. He scrabbles at his own seatbelt and finally finds the latch. 

Moonlight shines brightly off the snow outside but it’s still tough to see Dean’s face as he pulls himself up the seat. When he leverages himself well enough, one foot braced against the passenger door, Sam cradles Dean’s cheeks gently between his palms, lifting his head the smallest bit, careful not to move his neck. “Dean?”

No response - not even a small flutter of eyelashes. His cheeks are cold against Sam’s skin and now Sam can see where the snow falling inside the Impala is coming from. A starry crack on the driver’s side window turned into a jagged hole that lines up with the side of Dean’s head. A clutching pain in Sam’s chest takes his breath away and he scrambles to feel for a pulse in Dean’s neck and breathes out in a puff of relieved white when he finds it beating strong under his fingertips. Palpitating his fingers through hair matted with blood, he finds the lump that matches up with the window.

“Shit. Shit.” They need to get the car back up on the road. He squints out at the moonlight hill they spun out on; their tracks are the only thing to break up the fresh snow. It’s not a steep drop, probably an easy walk down to the tree line in good weather, but even if Sam could unbury the car, the Impala isn’t four-wheel drive and one person can’t turn it around and drive it at the same time.

Dean’s cheek still rests against his palm, pale and quiet, dark eyelashes resting on his cheek, lips open slightly, blood flowing down into his ear. It’s too much like last year, the demon, the semi-truck, and Dean in the backseat. Dying and then coming back and then the deal. A swell of panic rises inside Sam’s chest. If Dean dies now---

He pats his cheek. “Hey, Dean, need you to wake up.”

Dean’s forehead crinkles up and a small, hurt noise rises up behind his lips but then it fades. Sam reaches for the seat belt until he realizes Dean will just slip down the seat towards him. The angle isn’t bad - tilted at about fifteen degrees - but it’s enough that he’ll need to get out of the car first and pull Dean out the driver’s door. When he tries to open his door, the snow keeps it wedged shut and for a second, he feels that same panic, leaving his chest and covering him like a shadow. Won’t be long until the snow will be up to the window on this side and he slaps his palm on the glass. 

“C’mon, give me a break.”

Patsy Cline comes on the radio crooning about being crazy in love and he clicks it off so that he can think. Only way out is to crawl over the back seat. It’ll be awkward but if he can get out the back door then he can pull Dean from the car and up to the roadside. They can flag a car down and get a tow truck in the morning for the car. Good plan. Except his fingers already feel like shards of ice with the Impala’s heater off and Dean will be dead weight in this condition. He searches the backseat for gloves or extra jackets but it looks like they moved everything to the trunk before they left. 

Here goes nothing, he thinks as he pulls himself over the seat.

~~~

The streets of Jackson are at least plowed and salted. They’re twenty minutes outside of town before Sam relaxes. If there’s anything Dean knows well, it’s how to handle the car. The Impala may weigh two tons and it might not have four-wheel drive but she’s solid especially when Dean’s driving. The flurries swirl across their headlights but they can still see glimpses of the white and yellow highway lines running in front of them. Sam would settle in for a nap if it wasn’t so cold. He zips up his hoodie and cranks the heater up another notch. Dean whacks him on the chest with a smile.

“You cold? Shoulda worn your mittens, Samantha.”

He throws Dean’s hand and the comment off with a shrug. Each day, Dean's bravado shows itself in different ways and Sam’s been swallowing it down like a horse pill for weeks. The deal. It hangs over everything they do and rather than argue, he reminds himself - if Dean wants to go to Tahoe in the middle of a snowstorm then he deserves to go to Tahoe.

As they head north on State Highway 88, it’s obvious that the plows are having trouble keeping up with the snow. Dean stays inside the ruts from the cars in front of them and he slows down to a reasonable forty-five miles an hour.

“Whoa,” Dean says, as they hit an icy patch and he turns the steering wheel into the slide. It’s only a few seconds before he’s back to steady progress in the ruts but his attitude stinks. “Sam, find another station. Can’t stand that song.”

Sam’s eyebrows rise but he doesn’t say a word as he spins the tuner dial. Not much more on the radio than sports talk and some rap music station from Sacramento, but he finally finds one of those old country stations Dad would listen to late at night. 

Next time he looks out the windshield, the tire ruts they were following have narrowed to less than bicycle tracks. Dean switches on the high beams without a word and the new snow makes a noise like styrofoam breaking under the tires. That crunching sound makes Sam nervous, always did as a kid, like the snow crust will break and they would fall through to some Burroughs-like ice cave underneath. He opens up Dad’s journal and starts flipping through as Johnny Cash comes on the radio, singing about where the gun is cocked and the bullet's cold.

“Finally!” Dean says and Sam looks up at his enthusiasm. Their headlights shine on a long dark curve of road ahead where a snow plow must have re-entered from one of the on-ramps. He laughs and smacks Sam on the thigh. “We’re on our way now.”

~~~

The big pines at the edge of the hillside would make a pretty picture if Sam weren’t standing shin-deep in the snow. When Sam pries the driver's door open, Dean looks the same with his head hanging down chin to chest. Before unbuckling him, Sam slogs back through the snow to the trunk, the cold nipping at his ankles through his wool socks as little drifts fall over the tops of his short boots. 

They can’t carry everything in the Impala, choosing a change of clothes and their weapons over any extras, but Dad was always careful to pack an old red and blue wool blanket and some old lined, leather gloves in the wheel well under the weapons trunk.

This isn’t an emergency, Sam thinks as he pulls on one set of the gloves, sticking the other in his hoodie pocket. It’s not - just a cold pain in the ass that they’ll laugh about later. Dean will wake up any minute. He’ll be pissed about the car, pissed about not getting to Tahoe tonight, and they’ll flag another car to the next town. May have to wait for a few days to get the Impala towed back up to the highway but it's a small price to pay.

More snow spills over his boot tops as he moves back around to driver’s door. His arms are heavy with the blanket and he has to decide between unlatching Dean and catching him before he slides down or setting down the blanket. No matter which way he goes, it’ll be awkward. He’s tired and cold and if only Dean’d wake up--

“Hey, hey, Dean,” he says and strips off one of the gloves which hasn’t done a damn thing to warm his hands. He takes his smartphone out and holds it up. No bars of reception in this part of the Sierras but he finds the flashlight app and presses it. The bright light shines on Dean’s face but he still doesn’t move, even as Sam cups Dean’s chin and pulls one of his eyelids up. The pupil contracts normally and he sighs in relief. “Alright, let’s get you up to that road.”

~~~

“Okay, you were right,” Dean says. “Driving in this wasn’t my smartest move but it’s all good now. I’ll buy you a beer when we get to Tahoe.” 

The ice on the curve doesn’t show up in their headlights as anything other than black tarmac as Dean accelerates into it. There’s a feeling of weightlessness that hangs in the air for a moment as the back end of the Impala fishtails out, and it feels like they’re flying. The headlights bounce across the snowy shoulder and one of the green mile markers before Dean tries to take control and correct into the skid. Sam braces for impact, grabbing at the dash and door as they spin out. He hears the thud of snow plow stakes as they go down in front of the car, but it’s quiet as the two of them try to hold on and he doesn’t hear anything else before everything else goes dark.

~~~

Sam pulls Dean out of the car and arranges the car blanket around his shoulders. He leans in and the smell of oil and gunpowder mixed with wool make him close his eyes as he’s reminded of overnight drives sleeping in the back seat or curled up on a log in front of a campfire with Dean and Dad on either side. He rubs his cold nose against the wool and then pulls Dean close by the back of the head, pressing their cheeks together until there is a spark of warmth in their skin. The silence of the snowy field is broken by the distant sound of an engine and tires traveling slowly across snow and ice. Up above them on the road, headlights sweep down the road, slowing down at a spot right above them. 

“Hey, down here,” Sam yells and adjusts his grip on Dean. He waves his free hand over his head and the headlights pause before they speed up and continue on their way. “Thanks a lot, asshole.”

No one else is coming to help so it’s time for Sam to face the hillside. He staggers a few steps with Dean tucked into his side but the snow is knee deep and Dean sags like dead weight. They’re not going to make any progress this way so he dips down and pulls Dean up on his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Dean hates it when he’s awake, preferring to walk on his own two feet even when his injuries are bad. Right now he’s not in any position to argue.

Yeah, well, this is the only way we’re getting up there, Sam thinks. He makes it to the bottom of the slope, balancing more easier in the snow with Dean’s weight distributed across his shoulders. He spots where the tire tracks are from their spin out and starts to climb up in one of the ruts left behind. The first few steps are easy following the tramped-down snow but then he slides off to one side, falling to his knee with a grunt. He gets up and goes at it again, more slowly, placing each foot carefully, but he hits another patch and slides out again and Dean slips off his shoulders.

“C’MON!” 

A small bird is startled out of one of the pines at his shout. The wind whips down the throat of Sam’s hoodie and his double layers are no better than tissue paper in this wind. He checks Dean and then searches the hillside up to the road for a better way to climb up but it’s all unbroken soft snow. 

He can’t leave Dean behind and he can’t carry him. If he can’t carry him, he can’t save him. After the last few months and all the time they spent on stupid cases with Dean drinking and living out of dive bars, Dean’s remaining time would be wasted— 

“Please, just let me get him up this hill,” Sam prays to no one in particular.

“‘s cold,” Dean mumbles from below. “And why am I in a snowbank?”

“Oh, thank god.” Sam smiles at Dean’s confused look up at him. He helps him sit up, pulling the blanket up around his shoulders again. “We had an accident. Thought I was gonna have to carry you up to the road.”

“Where’s the car?” Dean’s teeth are chattering as he searches the snow-covered field for the car’s tracks and follows them to where the car is half-buried forty yards away.

“It’s fine. Just stuck.”

“You don’t look so good,” Dean says and Sam laughs. Dean reaches up to touch the bump on Sam’s forehead but Sam bats his hand away.

“I’m not the problem here - you are.” He stands up and extends his hand to Dean. “Can you stand up?”

Dean looks up the hillside and a grim look clicks into place. “Yeah, help me up.” 

With the two of them upright, they make progress against the hill. Despite his head injury, Dean has this unerring ability to keep his feet like a lynx while Sam continues to slip and slide.

“Remember Blue Earth?” Dean asks, not waiting for a response, as he keeps trudging in the snow with Sam under his arm, holding him up. “Pastor Jim had that little pond by the rectory that would freeze over. He wanted us to skate. Probably wanted us to play hockey for the church team. Fucking Minnesota.” His S’s and F’s are too long as if his lips and tongue can’t meet right and Sam starts pushing him to move faster. “‘member the skating, Sammy? You looked like Bambi out on the ice, all long legs and crossed ankles, but you got it. Took hours and hours but you got it. Dad was so proud. I was so proud. Wouldn’t change a thing. Not a thing.”

They’re almost to the shoulder when Dean falls to his knees and slumps over.

~~~

Sam sits on his butt, refusing to get up again. It’s pointless. Ice skating is stupid. His brother who does everything better is stupid. Dean skids to a stop before him and extends a hand down. 

“C’mon, Sammy, get up. I’ll stay with you this time. Hold your hand.” Last part is said with a grin and Sam glares at Dean’s hand and refuses to move. “Fine. I’ll be here when you’re ready.” Dean’s arms swing with ease as he skates to where Dad is doing slow regular loops around the outside of the pond.

Sam flops on his back and stares up at the blue cloudless sky above. Maybe when he’s twelve, it’ll all be easier. A large Dad-shaped shadow blocks out the sun.

“Can’t lie here all day, Sam.” 

“Sure I can.” He blows his bangs out of his eyes and Dad chuckles. 

“Well, then, you’ll freeze your butt off.”

“Fine with me.”

“Sammy, you can’t give up. Everything that’s worth doing requires some work. When you’re Dean’s age, it’ll be a little easier.”

John extends his hand out to pull Sam up and holds his shoulder in a firm grip until he’s steady on the skates again. 

“Alright, let’s try this again.”

~~~

He stumbles to the ground next to Dean and gathers him up in his arms. “No, no, no. Not now. We made it to the road, you gotta get up.” Dean looks peaceful like he’s just fallen asleep and warning bells are going off in Sam’s head but he can’t remember why.

A car’s headlights sweep over the curve of the road, two yellow circles coming closer and closer. In the light, Sam can see where the Impala spun out. It happened so quickly in real time but he can see where the tracks swoop in a wide arc before falling off the side of the road. The yellow headlights catch him and Dean at the side of the road and he shields his eyes against the glare.

“Dean, wake up. I need you to wake up now.”

In his rush to get Dean out, to reach the side of this fucking highway, Sam forgot one thing - a weapon. What if this wasn’t an accident? Demons running them off the road again, he thinks, and the Colt sits in the trunk of their car. As the headlights move closer, he grabs the back of Dean’s jacket and cradles him across his chest. Dean isn’t shivering anymore and Sam’s brain is fuzzy about why he needs a weapon when they should just lay down here and rest at the side of the road.

The blue-and-red flashing lights are a surprise and once again, Sam shields his eyes. Highway patrol, he thinks thickly as the car approaches. His frozen arms are having trouble holding Dean up so he slumps down over him and closes his eyes. Maybe something good will happen. Or something bad. At this point, he doesn’t care.

The sound of a car door opening and closing barely registers with him.

“Boys, what happened here?” The voice is deep and warm and carries so much authority that Sam straightens up. “Someone called in a spin-out earlier. Looks like your car went over the edge.”

“We, huh,” he says and stops because his tongue is too big for his mouth. The patrol officer is tall and broad across the shoulders, dark eyes that are kind as if they care what happens to him and Dean and a five o’clock shadow that’s running a few hours too long. Sam watches as the brim of his hat collects the snowflakes that fall. 

“Dad?” he whispers at the ghost in front of him.

The officer chuckles and moves forward to take Dean but Sam won’t let him go. Dad should know he’d never let Dean go.

“Son, let me move him to the car. You both need to get warmed up right away, okay?” Up close, the man’s eyes are crinkled in the corners and he has grey hairs scattered in his beard. It feels like home and he doesn’t resist when Dad’s ghost takes Dean’s weight in his arms. “C’mon, you too.”

“I can’t lose my brother.” He doesn’t realize that he said it out loud until the officer stops and looks back at him.

“Your brother’s not going anywhere. Trust me.” 

Sam staggers up to his feet and stumbles close behind, wanting the blue and red flashing lights to stop. He should be the one to save Dean - there’s a reason he needs to save Dean - instead, he stands by and watches as his brother is laid down in the back seat. The officer adjusts the smelly old car blanket around Dean and starts to shut the door before Sam grabs it. “Why don’t you sit up front with me? More room that way.”

“No. I stay with my brother.” He slides past the man into the seat, lifting Dean’s knees so his feet rest in Sam’s lap. As he looks out the side window, the Impala rests in the field below. The snow has already piled up higher against the car, halfway up its black doors. The officer gets in the front and turns on the heat in the back seat so it pours from the vents in the center console.

“All right then. Let’s get you someplace safe.” 

Already am, Sam thinks as he grasps the sleeve of Dean’s jacket and curls over to lay his head on Dean’s chest. Already am.


End file.
